


Open Your Eyes

by araliya



Series: The Siken Diaries [6]
Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-17 00:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14176623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araliya/pseuds/araliya
Summary: And now we have moved on to Escort!Darren.





	Open Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Open Your Eyes - Snow Patrol
> 
> Warnings for mentions of prostitution if that isn't your thing.

_Who am I? I’m just a writer. I write things down.  
                 I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure,  
            I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow  
                                    glass, but that comes later.  
                                  And the part where I push you  
   flush against the wall and every part of your body rubs against the bricks,  
                                                   shut up  
                                              I’m getting to it._ _-_

 _Hello darling, sorry about that._  
                            _Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we_  
 _lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell_  
 _and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud._  
 _Especially that, but I should have known._  
 _You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together_  
 _to make a creature that will do what I say_  
 _or love me back._  
 _I’m not really sure why I do it, but in this version you are not_  
 _feeding yourself to a bad man_  
 _against a black sky prickled with small lights._  
 _I take it back._  
 _The wooden halls like caskets. These terms from the lower depths._  
 _I take them back._

                    _Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed._

          -Richard Siken, Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out

 

Chris isn’t sure why he does it. Maybe he’s finally desensitised to it all- to the dates and the drinks and the swiping left and right and every which way. To the men whom Chris thinks he could actually care about that just end up becoming notes on pillows and unanswered phone calls. To the sickening, stomach churning feeling of rejection. **  
**

 

Maybe this is what makes him slowly dial the number, shakily tell the unnervingly cheerful lady who answers the phone what he’s after, and note down the name and phone number she gives him.

 

 _Everett_. No last name, but Chris is certain that this isn’t the guy’s real name anyway.

 

He makes the ‘reservation’ through the lady, balking at the thought of establishing any sort of contact with the man beforehand. She gives him the paying rates and while he doesn’t care about the money, he cares about the fact that the figures are making this more real than he can handle.

 

***

 

By the next week, Chris has forgotten about it.

 

That is, until the buzzer at the gate sounds, and he turns on the security screen to see an unfamiliar man with a halo of dark curls and bronze eyes. He looks so animated and alive when he waves at the camera that Chris almost forgets that he’s just paid to fuck him.

 

Almost.

 

Chris touches the key-shaped icon that opens the gate and picks nervously at his clothes, thankful that he’s actually gotten dressed today. He opens the door before Everett can knock, mindful of the house on the right that can see into his courtyard, and is horrified to find him standing in the doorway, covered in blood.

 

“Ah shit, man,” Everett says, wiping at his face, which looks it’s just about been  _doused_ , what with the way his nose is streaming blood. He holds up what Chris vaguely recognises as one of Cooper’s soft toys. “I tripped on this and face planted right into the tree.”

 

Chris looks towards the offending plant and nods a little. He’s always thought that the palm tree in the middle of the courtyard looked a little pretentious.

 

He realises that Darren’s still waiting for him to say something, holding his hand up to his face to stem the bleeding. It’s not working- red fluid seeps through his fingers and drips onto the stone.

 

“I hope it’s not too bad,” Chris says quietly, holding the door open for Darren and wondering whether it would be easier to bring the hose out while the blood’s still wet.

 

“Yeah, it would suck pretty bad if I’ve broken my nose or something,” Everett grimaces. Even though his teeth are lined with red and his eyes are watering, he’s still strikingly beautiful.

 

“People kind of pay for my face, you know,” he continues, and Chris is rather abruptly reminded why he’s here. Everett seems to be reminded of that too.

 

He accepts the ice pack and damp washcloth that Chris hands him and follows him into the downstairs bathroom, where he carefully prods at his nose. “We can still continue, I think. My nose isn’t broken or anything.”

 

“I can’t make you do that,” Chris says. He’s not sure whether it’s sympathy for the guy’s bruised nose or the sudden and horrifying realisation that he’s about to sleep with an  _escort_  that makes him decline.

 

Everett grins at him. “The blood put you off? Some guys are into that, you know.”

 

“I- uh, no. It just looks a little painful.”

 

“Nah, it’s just a bit sore,” Everett replies, shrugging. Chris doesn’t say anything, and Everett eyes him curiously. “You’re sure?”

 

Chris nods, and he smiles reassuringly. “No worries man. We can always reschedule if you like.” 

 

Everett ends up staying. He insists on cleaning the washcloth and the trail of blood he’s left behind, which ends up with him spying the faux racoon tail hanging from the balcony, which leads to them discussing the cinematics of  _Moonrise Kingdom_  on Chris’ couch.

 

Well, Everett discussing. Chris mostly listening.

 

Eventually, Chris is the one doing the talking. He’s not sure what happens but suddenly, it feels like a dam’s broken. It starts out with mundane things, like why exactly he named his cat Brian. Then it’s the books. He tells Everett about the manuscripts on the coffee table and the word documents on his laptop. About the words, and how recently, they’ve stuck in his throat like they’re a train that just won’t arrive.

 

What he doesn’t tell Everett is the fact that Chris booked him to resolve exactly that. His publicist had told him succinctly in a strongly worded email that he, quote-on-quote, ‘needed to get laid’, and in a fit of desperation, he’d done just that. Of course, not the ‘normal’ way, picking up some faceless man at a bar where he hopefully wouldn't get recognised, but in a more discrete, rather less acceptable way.

 

Everett listens, amber eyes glowing in the half-light as the sun sets. Chris doesn’t move to turn the light on.

 

It’s only when the alarm on Everett’s phone buzzes that Chris is brought to reality. Their time is up. Of course.

 

Everett seems genuinely regretful that he has to leave. He tells Chris that he can schedule another meeting through the agency or he can contact him directly if he wants. When Chris slides over the check, Everett slides it right back.

 

“You don’t need to pay, man. We just hung out.”

 

He puts his hand on Chris’. His skin is warm.

 

Chris pulls away and tries not to feel anything when Everett’s eyes flicker with something that looks a little like disappointment. He walks him to the door, and before he can turn away, Everett bites his lip and hesitates.

 

“My name, it’s not Everett. Well it is- it’s my middle name- but my real name’s Darren.”

 

 _Darren_.

 

Chris smiles a little, and holds up a hand in farewell. Darren looks like he wants to say something but thinks better of it, sliding the gate open and walking out.

 

Chris watches his retreating back and then goes upstairs to lie in his cold bed. He’ll clean Darren’s blood off the doorstep tomorrow, he thinks.

 

***

 

It takes a bottle and a half of wine to contact Darren again.

 

Chris texts instead of calls- there’s no way Darren won’t notice the slur, and he makes sure he re-reads it a dozen times before hitting send. It’s just a date and time, but he has to make sure.

 

He’s not even expecting sex, not really, but when Darren walks in, Chris finds himself pushing Darren against the door, curling a palm around the strong line of his jaw. Their lips meet and Darren makes a muffled sound of surprise before his fists tighten in the material of Chris’ shirt, pulling him closer.

 

They have sex right there on the living room floor.

 

“Thank god for your for your fancy rugs,” Darren laughs when it’s over, hand resting over his slick stomach, uncaring.

 

Chris just stares at the lube smeared on the Marrakesh Shag and thinks about how in an hour, Darren will have to go. And now that they’ve actually done what Chris ordered him for, he’ll never see him again.

 

It’s only when they’ve curled up naked on the couch that Darren tells him lightly, “You can book me as a regular, you know.”

 

He dips his finger into his bowl of ice cream and sucks, pink tongue curling around his finger as it chases the cream. Chris asks him whether he’d be okay with that and Darren laughs, bopping Chris on the nose with a sticky finger.

 

“Of course I’d be okay with that, man. You’re pretty fucking amazing.”

 

This time, Darren kisses him at the doorstep.

 

***

 

Chris supposes things start going a little wrong when Darren stops taking the money.

 

He doesn’t notice it at first- the checks disappear from the phone table by the door as usual (his chest hurts a little when he gives them straight to Darren), but it’s only when Chris goes to check whether he spent another night sleep-shopping that he realises that none of the them are being cashed.

 

Chris doesn’t say anything at first. He opens the door to let Darren in as usual, lets him walk him backwards up the stairs to the bedroom as usual, lets him kiss Chris until he can’t breathe. Lets Darren curl up against him as they talk or watch a movie, lets him stay the night.

 

When Darren leaves in the morning, Chris watches him slide the slip of paper into his back pocket. He lets him kiss him at the door, and Chris could almost pretend they were normal, if it weren’t for the outline of the folded square of paper, burning a hole in Chris’ mind.

 

He gives Darren a week, and at the end of it, the night before Darren comes over again, the money’s still there.

 

***

 

Darren’s halfway up the stairs when Chris asks him about it. It’s probably not the best timing; with Darren just one step above him, they’re the same height as each other, and Chris can see into those ridiculous eyes with painful clarity.

 

“Why are you not taking the money?” Chris asks quietly.

 

Darren balks, paling visibly. The hand that had been tugging Chris up the stairs drops to his side and Chris feels the sudden emptiness in his  _bones_.

 

“What are you talking about? I take the checks.”

 

“But you don’t cash them,” Chris replies.

 

_Why is he pushing this? Why does it matter?_

 

( _Because_ , Chris reminds himself,  _without the money, this is real. Without the money, Darren isn’t pretending anymore._ )

 

“I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.”

 

Chris’ eyes widen. Darren looks stricken, like he can’t believe the words have come out of his mouth. Without a sound, he brushes past Chris and walks to the door, turning the handle with a shaky wrist.

 

Chris doesn’t know why he doesn't follow him. His feet stay rooted to the ground, and he stays staring at the vanilla carpet, until Brian curls around his ankles and meows for his dinner.

 

***

 

“ _This is Chris. Please leave a message._ ”

 

“ _Hey, Chris. This is Darren._

_I- uh. I’m sorry for walking out on you last night. But-_

_we can’t do this._

_**I**  can’t do this. To you._

_We could never be together. You can’t date an escort and I can’t lose my job. I’m a musician until the people stop listening and the gigs stop coming, and then what?_

_Parents aren’t going to let their kids read books written by a guy who fucks an escort, Chris. A male escort._

_Please don’t contact me again. I need the distance, otherwise I’ll never fall out of love with you._ ”

 

***

 

When Darren stops coming, so do the words.

 

Chris had been doing okay, until then. His publishers had been pleased, fewer and fewer drafts were being sent back, and his publicist had been gleeful that her advice had actually worked.

 

She, of course, had no idea that Chris had gone and fallen in love with the one person he wasn’t supposed to have.

 

Then it ends up that Chris  _really_  doesn’t have him, and his heart, along with his writing, come to a shuddering halt.

 

***

 

He sees Darren several months later at a Book Release for one of the big name thriller writers.

 

He’s on the arm of some vaguely familiar woman in a chignon and a black dress, diamonds glittering at her throat. Darren’s hair is slicked back and he’s buttoned up to the collar in a sharp suit.

 

The shock of seeing Darren again overshadows the realisation that women take escorts too, and some even as dates to functions and high profile events.

 

Darren catches his eye as he turns away from an amicable conversation with a silver-haired man to grab a drink from a waiter, and freezes when he realises that it’s Chris’ icy blue eyes that he’s staring into.

 

Chris stands there, stock-still, and suddenly, the delicate stem of the wine glass he’s holding feels like it could just about shatter under his grip.

 

He unsticks his feet from the hardwood floors painstakingly, making to move over to Darren, until he sees him widen his eyes and shake his head. Chris follows his eyes to the sign that points to the men’s lavatory.

 

Of course. Darren and his hero complex.

 

Chris watches him excuse himself, watches the client trail her fingers down his arm in goodbye, watches his retreating back as he walks down the corridor that leads to the bathroom.

 

He waits a moment before following suit. The door swings shut with a well-oiled slide, and Darren stands at the other end, twisting at his cufflinks.

 

“Hi,” Chris says, quietly.

 

“Hi.”  


“Was she-”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Darren’s hair is cut shorter than Chris remembers, and he wonders whether his fingers would get caught in the curls like they used to.

 

“Why?” Chris asks, instead. “Why did you leave me?”

 

“I told you.”

 

“No, you didn’t,” Chris says fimly. “You didn’t  _tell_  me, you just did it. Like you had the right to just  _choose_  what was good for me.”

 

Darren’s eyebrows knit together in a crease, a frown replacing the smile lines. “You know I had to. What would we have done?”

 

“I loved you back,” Chris whispers. “I loved you back and you just threw it away.”

 

He can feel the burn in his eyes, in his stomach, churning in his chest.

 

“We can’t,” Darren says quietly. He takes a step forward, a stride that places him right before Chris, that has them within a hair’s breadth of each other. He places a tentative hand on Chris’ jaw. “I could never forgive myself if something went wrong.”

 

Chris brings his own fingers up to meet Darren’s. “How would you know we don’t even try?” The words stick in his throat like glue. “Am I not worth trying for?”

 

“ _Chris_.”

 

“You tell me you love me, and then you walk away.”

 

“Chris, I-”

 

“Do you do this to all your clients?” Chris asks thickly. His hand is shaking and he knows Darren can feel it. “Make them fall in love with you? Make them believe it’s real to the point where the money’s normal and the appointments are normal and the phone calls through the receptionist are just fine and dandy and  _normal_.”

 

“It was real,” Darren says, eyes glistening amber under the tastefully arranged lights. He grips Chris’ hand tightly. “And that’s why I had to walk away. If we were to be together, what with my work, I’d be hurting you every day.”

 

“You have to stop deciding what’s good for me.”

 

“You don’t understand-”

 

“I do!” Chris cries, tears falling freely now. “Darren, you’re not  _saving_  me by leaving me. I  _understand_  what it would be like. I’m not asking you to stop working. And as for the books- my personal life doesn’t make my living, my writing does. And when you were there, Dare- you were standing on the platform when the train arrived.”

 

Darren’s eyes flash and Chris knows he’s remembering that night of Lysol floor cleaner and cold pizza and the cold fogging up the windows until Chris drew the curtains.

 

And then later nights of warm sheets and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and passing Darren a Benadryl to stop his allergies flaring up when Brian inevitably burrowed into his lap for the evening.

 

“I don’t know what we were,” Chris whispers, “but it made me so,  _so_  happy. And it would hurt less if it hadn’t actually been real, but you tell me it was real, and that breaks my heart even more.”

 

“I never want to hurt you,” Darren says, thumbing under Chris’ eyes to disperse the tears. “Tell me that I won’t ruin everything for you.”

 

“You make me  _proud_ , Dare, I doubt you’re capable of ruining  _anything_. You’re kind, and loving, and talented, and so,  _so_  giving. I wouldn’t ever change a thing. Please don’t change a thing.”

 

***

 

Two men stand in a bathroom until their legs start to ache and people start to eye them strangely.

 

***

 

Eventually, Chris goes back to the party, and Darren goes back to work, and that night, someone rings the doorbell.

 

Chris turns on the speaker, tells Darren to be mindful of any obstacles in his way, and picks Brian up off the doormat.


End file.
